No, you’re the asshole.
What! Is he kidding? How am I an asshole? How dare he? Who the hell does he think he is? I text back.
You have got to be kidding.
I smile. There, that showed him, how dare he say I’m an asshole? I am definitely not an asshole. He is unfucking believable. My phone beeps a message.
FUCK OFF
What the fuck? Red steam is shooting out of my ears. No guy, or anyone actually, has ever told me to fuck off, and especially not in capital letters in print. I am infuriated. I want to throw my new iPhone across the restaurant. I start to drum my fingers on the table, doubletime. Simon is still oblivious to my rage, god he really is docile.
“Come on, let’s go,” he smiles.
What shall I text back? I need the upper hand. I am tapping my front tooth with my fingernail while I think. Simon is right, he really is a prick. I sit in Simon’s car, silently looking out the window as I troll my brain for a good comeback. I’ve got nothing. Use your brain Natasha, I’m sure there’s one in there somewhere. I just know at 2 am tomorrow morning an awesome comeback is going to pop into my head and it will haunt me for the rest of my life. I have to text now or it will look like I am thinking about my reply, even though I am. This is a total disaster. In the end I text the lamest reply in human history.
Gladly
That night at Oscar’s, Bridget and Abbie laugh as they read the texts.
“How did it go from you’re an asshole to fuck off?”
“I don’t know.” I shake my head as they continue to pass my phone to each other.
“And why does he think you’re an asshole?” I slump on the table and put my face into my hands. “Probably because I am an asshole, a stupid beyond belief asshole.”
They laugh again. “He knows you better than you think.”
“Thanks a lot,” I sigh. “This isn’t funny, bitches.”
“Yes it is.” They both huddle together and giggle. “It’s frigging hilarious.”
Wednesday at work drags. I’m still fuming. I have thought of nothing else since I saw him yesterday. Fuming is a lot more satisfying than pining. I’m just so off him. After lunch I get a text from Bridget.
We are going out tonight. Spying on Jeremy, time to bust a move.
Great. I smile as I read the text. I need some NCIS action and it will take my mind off prickface. I text back.
Sounds good. Is Abbie coming?
She replies.
Of course, meet me at mine at seven.
K
We are standing together in a line in Bridget’s bedroom, looking at our reflection in the mirror. “We look like hookers,” I grimace.
“That’s the point,” she replies.
“Are you sure you read the email right?”
She nods. “Yes, what do you think? I just thought this shit up?” Jeremy accidentally left his email open last night and Bridget snooped. Apparently he is going to an upmarket strip club tonight with his work friends and we are going to sneak into the joint to bust him in the act.
“What time does it open?”
“Half an hour,” she replies. “We had better get going.”
An hour later we are sitting at a table in the back corner of what is probably the classiest night club I have been in. The walls are a deep smoky grey and the lounges and pendant lights are all in black velvet. Huge silver gilded mirrors hang on the walls and giant palm trees are in massive ceramic pots surrounding the perimeter. Whoever the interior designer was hit the target. It can only be described as sensual. I have never been in a space like this before, it screams opulence and fantasy. The sound system is amazing, and the music seems to be surrounding us.